


Buttercup

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo services Sam in the garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buttercup

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a quiet day in Hobbiton, as most are wont to be, and for once, Sam’s glad for it. He would be able to see anyone coming up the hill, and thus far he hasn’t, which is certainly best, because if anyone were to come wandering up to Bag End, he’d have no idea what to do. 

He certainly couldn’t push Mr. Frodo away. If he had that ability, he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. He’s a _proper_ hobbit—even if he does wonder about Elves and occasionally far-off places—and he doesn’t practice such immoral acts, certainly not in _public_ , in _broad daylight_ , but when Frodo comes to him with a flushed face and half-lidded, hazy eyes, how is he supposed to say no? He can never turn his employer down over mundane things like staying an extra bit to trim the hedge, let alone grand, wanton requests like _get out of those trousers._

He still has his trousers on. But they’re open, his bits pulled out, stuffed into the hot, wet cavern of Mr. Frodo’s mouth. Frodo’s on his knees in front of Sam, _for_ Sam, just behind the bench and three stacked pots of begonias. Frodo’s hands are on Sam’s hips, small fingers curled into his clothes, and Sam is holding his own mouth and the air, because he doesn’t quite have the courage to hold onto Mr. Frodo. He wants to thread his fingers through Frodo’s dark curls, hold him on and help his movements, but that would be so indecent, like this whole thing, so Sam just stands where he is, frozen and transfixed. Frodo slides rhythmically up and down his stout shaft, mouth stretched around his girth and lips glistening wet with spit. When Frodo reaches Sam’s base, he always nuzzles in, taking Sam so deep that Sam’s sure he’s pushing down Frodo’s throat, and he can feel the tight walls dilate around him. There’s a slight scrape from Frodo’s teeth that Sam doesn’t dare complain about, that slight discomfort overrun by _pleasure._ Frodo’s tongue is silk-soft, he’s boiling hot, and worst of all he looks _absolutely beautiful_.

But he always looks beautiful. He’s the prettiest hobbit in the Shire—Sam knows that for a fact. He’s gorgeous and smart and sweet and he makes Sam’s heart simultaneously melt and burst, and yet he chooses to offer plain old _Samwise Gamgee_ such delights. His lashes are mostly lowered, soft against his cheeks, but occasionally they flicker up, and Frodo’s eyes look up at Sam with a rush of fondness. Sam’s sure he must be reading them wrong. He doesn’t know why Frodo does this, but he can’t believe it’s for him, like Frodo says. He can’t believe that Frodo actually _longs to touch him_ , like his employer’s admitted softly over too many drinks at the pub. Frodo’s... strange. Perfect. He buries himself in Sam’s crotch and takes a great suck, forcing Sam to moan. 

The morning breeze is thick with the stench of sex. There’re too many sounds—the squelching wetness of Frodo’s lips slipping down his cock, the humming noise in the back of Frodo’s throat, the rustle of his bare knees in the grass, the groans pouring out around Sam’ fingers. Finally, Sam gives in, dropping his free hand down against Frodo’s head, and Frodo mewls happily, sucking at his mouthful all the harder. Sam’s knees are faintly trembling. It’s too good to be true. 

Sam’s always admired Mr. Frodo. Adores him too much. But Sam knows when someone’s too good for him. He doesn’t know how to keep up. He’s the one that’s supposed to work for Mr. Frodo; he’s the one that should be on his knees, but Frodo looks so oddly _right_ , sitting there with his mouth impaled by Sam’s cock, and then he makes a long, languid keening sound, stifled by Sam’s flesh, but Sam can _feel_ it all. He can _hear_ the pleasure in Frodo’s moan, and that’s what pushes him over the edge; the wild thought that _his cock_ is making Frodo happy.

He thrusts forward suddenly, wanting to stammer an apology but too busy biting back his scream. He bursts inside Frodo’s mouth, forcing Frodo to splutter and pull halfway off, but not all the way. Sam’s grip in Frodo’s hair is lax, and he couldn’t tighten it if he wanted to; he lets Frodo go where he wants, stay half on and suckling at Sam’s leaking dick. Embarrassed, Sam keeps wanting to stop, but he lets out one jet after another, always too aroused by the mere thought of Frodo alone. He always comes the most when Frodo’s name is in his head. 

When he is done, he feels dizzy. Frodo waits a few seconds, then slowly slips off. He opens his mouth wide to run his tongue along his lips, and Sam gets a sinful view of the walls of his mouth and his tongue coated in Sam’s seed. Then Frodo closes his mouth and _swallows_ , letting all of Sam’s release slide down his throat. Sam thinks he might faint. 

Frodo opens up to lick his lips again, and now it’s clean. He’s swallowed it all. He sighs contentedly, then starts to refasten Sam’s trousers. 

Sam numbly lets his employer fix his clothes. Still on his knees, Frodo looks up to ask sweetly, “Do you want a drink? I can make you lemonade.”

Only Mr. Frodo could give an amazing blowjob and then offer to make him a drink. Sam can barely talk but somehow manages to answer, “Yes, please.” In truth, he just wants an excuse to linger around Bag End as long as possible. He’s completely forgotten what he was doing with the garden before Frodo came out to see him. 

Frodo smiles, more dazzling than the sun. He closes his eyes long enough to place a kiss against Sam’s crotch, and then he pushes unsteadily back up to his feet. It makes Sam sad to have his fingers fall out of Frodo’s hair, but it’s been too wonderful a day to complain. There’s a brief moment where they’re both standing next to one another, and Sam wants to _kiss Frodo so badly_ but doesn’t. 

Frodo just walks around him, still smiling and smelling of flowers and sex, off into the round, green door. It closes behind him, and then Sam can hear footsteps through the open window. 

He picks up his sheers, takes in a deep breath, and gets back to work.


End file.
